Sherlock Holmes & the Eternal Smoke
by JohnTownsend1989
Summary: Sherlock and Watson investigate the theft of a priceless, centuries-old bottle of wine. The evidence leads them to a unusual competition in London where Sherlock will have to face off against a longtime rival.


Sherlock Holmes & the Eternal Smoke

By John Townsend

John Watson stood at the foot of the cellar staircase, the earthen, musty scent striking hard against his nose. In the dark, he could just make out the tall wooden racks of wine bottles extending out of sight. Water droplets fell somewhere against the brick floor, echoing throughout with a soft din. The only light came from the doorway above, hazed by his companion descending the stairs.

Sherlock Holmes took his place alongside Watson, craning his head about to take in the dark cavern. His eyes fell to the floor, fixated there, until his concentration broke.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," a voice called from the dark.

The figure of a short, slight man emerged into the light. He wore a snow-white goatee below golden spectacles. A red, silken cravat tucked into the collar of his white shirt. Even in the dim cellar, the ruddy complexion of his cheeks and rose shone.

He extended his hand. "I am Francis Mayfield, resident sommelier at the Mortimer Estate."

They all shook hands, Sherlock's gaze aimed at the floor. "Tell me, Mr. Mayfield, how long ago did you have a geologist inspect your cellar? One week ago, surely not more than two?"

"Precisely, sir. The earl wanted to ensure the soil around our cellar walls was creating the right humidity for our wine. However, the gentleman and I were together for the entirety of his visit. He could not have stolen the jeroboam."

"Certainly not, could you take us to where the Chateau Margaux was last seen."

Mayfield retrieved a lantern hanging against the wall and struck a match to light it. Light fell across the cellar, glinting across the deep red bottles, revealing tunnels expanding into other sections of the spacious cavern.

"Follow me, gentlemen."

They passed by stacks of French crates from centuries past, still nailed shut. Bottles lay upon racks, some locked behind heavy iron grating. They walked through one tunnel, then another, each full from floor to ceiling with wine.

"My Lord, there must be thousands of bottles here," Watson said.

Mayfield chuckled. "It's hard to say, really. The family drinks an average of three bottles at dinner, so the number always changes. At last count, we had 11,246. Here we are, gentlemen."

They walked into a small chamber where lay a large wooden crate, its straw stuffing strewn across the floor.

"We believe it disappeared sometime last night, though who can be sure of the hour. A 15th century Chateau Margaux — one of the oldest examples from the vineyard and the crown jewel of the earl's collection. We never thought to keep it locked away because who could ever carry it out without being noticed?"

Sherlock paced around crate, bent, still fixed upon the floor rather than the empty crate.

"Mr. Mayfield, might I borrow your lantern?"

Sherlock took it, waving the lantern across the stone floor, ribbons of light waving, shadows stretching their limbs across the walls. Then, he extinguished the lantern.

Entombed in darkness, they watched as a phosphorescent line appeared on the floor, weaving through the bricks like ghostly ivy and leading out the room.

"Calcite dust," Sherlock called out, striking a match to reignite the lantern. "When the geologist visited, he left our thief a trail of calcite from the cellar entrance to the Chateau Margaux. Only someone in darkness would see its glow. Mr. Mayfield, while you may have been together the entire duration of his visit, you certainly would not have seen him sprinkling calcite dust through the hole in his pocket."

Sherlock pulled a magnifying glass from his coat pocket and knelt, examining the floor once more. Rubbing his fingers along the brick, he lifted a fine, gray dust, placing a smear upon his upper lip and tongue.

He leapt up, glancing quick at his pocket watch. "Watson, Mayfield, follow me."

Sherlock let his right leg grow limp, dragging it across the stone floor, as they made their way back to the cellar entrance."

"Sherlock, dare I ask what you are doing?" Watson said.

"Timing, good fellow. If I am correct, there are perhaps ten possible suspects in this crime, and all of them will be in the same location in just a few days."

They meandered on through the cellar, Sherlock's boot heel clacking against the floor until they arrived back at the stairs. The detective crouched, dabbing his forefinger across the ground in various places to then swipe it across his tongue.

He checked his pocket watch.

"Such a shame," the detective said. "A masterful crime, quite original using the calcite dust, yet in one small error, the thief eliminates nearly all of the world from the list of suspects."

"Well Mr. Holmes," Mayfield said, adjusting his glasses upon his nose. "Might you tell us who are thief is?"

"All in good time, Mr. Mayfield. First, I would like to confirm just how this gentleman absconded with the wine. Could you please show me to the kitchen? I would like to speak with the cook."

They ascended the stairs into a long, busy hallway. Servants scurried back and forth between their rooms, the kitchen, and the butler's office. Candlelit sconces positioned along the walls flashed across polished silver platters. Mayfield led the way into a kitchen, where a blazing fire crackled in the hearth. Cooks crowded around a large table, rolling massive pins across dough to prepare bread for the evening's dinner.

Mayfield lifted his hand in the air to signal. "Miss Aubrey, a moment of your time."

A young woman, fair in complexion with arms and shoulders of a woodsman, stepped forward. She patted her dough-ridden hands across her apron before performing a small curtsy.

"Miss Aubrey, may I present Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. They are assisting us in retrieving Lord Mortimer's missing Chateau Margaux. Mr. Holmes asked specifically to speak with you."

Sherlock nodded, extending his hand. "Madam, managing a kitchen in a house of this size, I am certain you must have plenty of deliveries."

"Ay," she said, "Dozens. It is a regular bazaar down here when the family is entertaining."

"And do you recall any delivery men yesterday evening that you did not recognize seeing before?"

"Well, we did have one last night to bring us more ice—a dowdy old man, so bent with age you could not help but pity the old soul."

Sherlock leaned forward, placing his hands upon the woman's broad shoulders. Watson caught his friend's index finger fall upon the woman's pulmonary vein.

"Madam, please try to remember. At any point, did this delivery man leave your sight?"

Lines broke out across the young woman's face, as though she might cry. "Ay, he did ask to use the servants' loo before he left. I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, Mr. Mayfield, I hope I did not do something wrong."

Sherlock smiled. "Not at all, Miss Aubrey. Thank you, I have taken up too much of your time."

Still disturbed, wringing her hands, the cook returned to her dough.

"Well, there you have it, Mr. Mayfield. I will leave Watson to settle up on our fee. We will be in touch once the jeroboam has been recovered."

Sherlock turned to leave, when Mayfield seized his arm. "Mr. Holmes, while we are paying you to recover the wine, I believe some information is owed. I heard nothing from Miss Aubrey which shines any real light on this affair."

"Then perhaps you were not listening. Last night, a strange gentleman claiming to be a delivery man enters the kitchen. He disguises himself as an old man in order to walk with such a belabored gait and not draw suspicion. However, before he leaves, he asks if he might use the water closet, giving him a reason to walk through the servant's hallway and past the house keys hanging there on the wall. He seizes a key ring, and with such scuttling going on, no pays much notice to the dowdy old man."

"He makes his way down the cellar stairs, and then does just what I showed you earlier. He follows the calcite trail to the crate holding the Chateau Margaux. The old man, actually quite an athlete considering what he does next, places the jeroboam between his legs. It was cold last night, and surely our thief was dressed in an overcoat. He climbs the stairs, his gait unchanged from when he entered, though now strained with carrying this wine. He walks past the unknowing servants and into the night with the Chateau Margaux. There you have it, Mr. Mayfield. I'll see myself out through the kitchen door. It seems only appropriate to follow the path of our thief."

Sherlock stepped out into the biting, winter air. Snowbanks lay across cobblestone streets, muddied with hoof and boot prints. He lifted the collar of his coat against the cold and wrapped a woolen muffler around his neck, before making his way back toward Baker Street.

"Holmes," Watson shouted, hurrying through the kitchen door to his side.

"Ah Watson, nightcap before bed? Brandy or Scotch?"

"Scotch, now, you must explain something. You never said how you limited our suspect down to ten people."

Sherlock smiled. He took the meerschaum pipe from his coat pocket and tamped down on the fragrant tobacco. "Again, timing, my friend. Our thief lit a pipe upon descending the cellar stairs. And for the duration of his crime, he smoked it."

Striking a match against his boot heel, Sherlock lit his own pipe. Wispy clouds rose above their heads, smelling of vanilla and sandalwood. "Watson, I could stroll pleasantly along to our flat and not keep this lit but fifteen minutes. The pipe is a peaceful, yet challenging tool, requiring careful consideration as it is packed and smoked. I estimate that our thief, in the heat of a crime, his breathing surely accelerated, managed to smoke his pipe for at least thirty minutes. And why smoke at all down in the cellar? Because he is in training."

"Training?"

Breathing deep, Sherlock exhaled a thick halo of smoke. "Yes, training. The British Pipe Smoking Championship is but a week away, Watson, in the basement of James J. Fox's establishment. There, we shall encounter our thief. Now, I have some training of my own to do."

Dressed in a smoking jacket of crushed, red velvet, Sherlock descended the stairs into the merchant's basement. Four tables filled the room each surrounded by wing-backed chairs. A dozen men stood about, each dressed in similar smoking jackets, some adorning tasseled smoking caps. Three of them appeared older than sixty, their bodies warped with age, their eyes tired and hazy. But the other nine seemed athletic enough to commit the theft. Sherlock gazed hard at their faces. One man, jaunty in his conversation, looked stronger than the rest. His shoulders broad beneath his jacket, the fabric of his trousers stretched tight across muscular legs.

A man toward the front of the room clanged a mallet against a gong. "Gentlemen, please take your seats. I shall review the rules, and we will begin shortly."

Sherlock took a seat beside his primary suspect. The man flashed a smile at him beneath a straw-colored beard, his pupils deep dark circles.

The emcee clapped his hands together. "Welcome to this year's British pipe-smoking championship. Now, for a quick review of the rules. In just a moment, each of you will receive two matches, a straight-neck briar, and your tobacco. The tobacco is a new, Virginian blend, compliments of our host. The man who can keep his pipe lit the longest wins, gentlemen. You may of course re-tamp or remove any ash, but the pipe must remain lit. Good luck to you all."

A steward walked the room, distributing the materials to each competitor in a small tray. Sherlock took his pipe and examined it.

He watched his neighbor with care as he tamped down his small handful of tobacco. The crow's feet around his eyes crinkled in a familiar way. His lip curled in small smirk, shooting a glance at Sherlock.

The detective leaned back in his chair, tamping his own tobacco. "Does the Tower of London no longer suit you, Professor?"

His neighbor gripped his beard tight, pulling it away, leaving a thin film of glue across the face of James Moriarty. "Too long, old boy. I nearly thought I would have to introduce myself to you."

The gong boomed. "Gentleman, please strike your match and light your pipe. The timing has begun."

The two men struck their matches against the tabletop, igniting them with a light pop. Sherlock leaned his over his bowl, inhaling, feeling the heat of the flame pour through the tobacco.

"Not too fast, old boy. Wouldn't want you to be knocked out too soon," Moriarty said.

Soon the room filled with smoke, as men's faces disappeared behind the thick, grey clouds. Sherlock puffed at the rich, red Virginia flavor. A warm feeling, like a woolen shawl, fell over him as he leaned deeper into his chair.

"I must admit, Professor. I would have never pegged you for this. Petty theft seems far beneath you."

"Quite true, I'm afraid. But my dear Sherlock, I needed to bring you here tonight. An outright invitation seemed so dull."

The gong sounded once more. "Ten minutes have now passed, gentlemen, you may have a drink. We will have wine to your tables momentarily."

The steward cut through the smoke carrying a large, silver tray, placing glasses of red wine before each of the competitors. Sherlock lowered his nose into the glass. Even amid the heavy serpents of smoke, scents of black cherry, plum, and chocolate hit hard at his nostrils. He sipped, feeling the smooth wine trickle down his throat, small flecks of sediment falling across his tongue.

He studied the wine up against the dim lamplight. "You certainly did not?"

Moriarty laughed, clapping his hand down hard on his knee. "Tell me, Sherlock, what is the point in having a Chateau Margaux if not to enjoy it. Fine wine is hard to come by in the tower, old boy. Why not celebrate freedom with such a spirit as this?"

Sherlock inhaled, releasing a long jet of smoke twirling upward into the hazy gaslight. "We are here competing, Moriarty, might I propose a side wager?"

"I thought you would never ask, dear Sherlock. What shall we wager?"

"Since you mentioned it, why not freedom? If I beat you, you must return tonight, shackled and chained, to the tower for all to see."

The burning tobacco glinted across Moriarty's eyes, rendering him even more animalistic and dangerous. "An interesting proposition, but what would I gain should you fall?"

"Oh, it is the same stakes for me, Professor. I shall admit to stealing the wine from Earl Mortimer. After all, here I am drinking it and quite enjoying it. If my pipe burns out, I will take your place in the tower."

Without hesitation, Moriarty extended his hand. "Well Sherlock, you do not disappoint. We have a wager. Have another glass of wine, old boy. I'm afraid it will be your last for some time."

The two men shook hands, then leaned back in their chairs preparing themselves for a long battle. Framed portraits across the walls became visible again as pipes extinguished. Competitors applauded as their fellow smokers stood and bowed out. Some gathered at the fringes of the room, chattering, pointing at Sherlock and Moriarty, coins changing hands.

A grandfather clock gonged the hour. Moriarty grinned, his teeth clamped down hard on the stem of his pipe, full smoke blowing through the dragon smile. "An hour gone, old boy. Not sure that pipe of yours has much longer."

Sherlock's smoke trickled from the edge of his mouth, a thin stream compared to the heavy tendrils of his opponent. He retrieved a handkerchief to pat at his watering eyes. "I have not yet begun to smoke, Professor. Although, I believe my eyes are failing me in all of this smoke."

Chairs scraped against the wooden floor as more men stood to leave the contest. After another half hour, only Sherlock and Moriarty remained. Tears fell from Sherlock's blinking, red eyes, though his smoke kept steady. Moriarty's strong blasts of smoke had thinned, until the two men appeared even. Concern grew across Moriarty's face. He scraped the ash out from the bottom of the bowl and puffed hard, a few wisps escaping from his mouth until the pipe burned out.

Sherlock retrieved the pocket watch from his vest. "What a shame. You were just short of two hours. Well, I suppose you will soon have ample time to improve your smoking in the tower."

Moriarty stood, pulling a derringer pistol from his pocket and aiming it at Sherlock's forehead. "The tower is still better than the crypt. Farewell, Sherlock."

A cane rose high above Moriarty's head and crashed hard against his skull, dropping him to the floor. Watson winked at Sherlock and waved for two police officers to haul away Moriarty's unconscious body.

Sherlock stood and gripped his friend's hand hard. "Thanks, Watson. I figured an old military man could read me blinking 'Scotland Yard' in Morse code."

"Loud and Clear, Sherlock, loud and clear."

"Well, I am sure I must give my statement to the police and explain how Moriarty disguised himself first as our geologist, then the delivery man, in order to make off with the Chateaux Margaux. But before I go."

Sherlock approached the steward and leaned in toward his ear. "Could I trouble you for another glass of that delicious red wine."


End file.
